The Madness Within
by LycanLass
Summary: Longer fic: Covers Remus's period as a spy within Fenrir Greyback's camp, as alluded to in "Half Blood Prince." War and politics and some sex. AU: Sirius survived the Department of Mysteries but was rearrested. Tonks is a journalist and a dark witch, not an Auror. -Currently on hold, hope to resume soon-
1. Chapter 1

_I've wanted to write this for years, but it took a long and boring hospital stay to finally get me back in the fanfiction groove. As always, I don't own any of the characters or concepts. M rating for later in the story. I'll keep this updated frequently. Thanks for reading! :-)_

From the vantage of their fourth floor flat, wizarding London was a sea of black pointed hats. Ever the watcher, Remus Lupin leaned against the window, half hidden behind the burgundy curtains. On the cobbled street below, a man carried a covered cage which periodically emitted a few disconcerting puffs of fire, and a matron led a group of six young wizards, orderly as baby ducklings. He could see two lovers embracing under a lamp, the light turning the surrounding mist into a lovely amber haze.

Remus used the back of his hand to clear the fog from the window. He took another sip of whiskey as he watched the lovers with a detached, almost paternal, approval. The scene below complemented his Scotch, a 50-year-old single malt from a small Speyside distillery. He felt pretentious even saying that. He never could have afforded the whiskey, but Sirius had given him a crate of it during a mad purge of his parents's wine cellar.

Remus finished his drink when he saw a bobbing red dot weave through the black pointed hats. His girlfriend had little patience for frivolities, much preferring warm wool caps to dainty concoctions, but she pretended to enjoy the crimson beret he'd given her as a birthday gift. From his current vantage, he could see only the interlacing stitching of the hat's top, not the diminutive witch under it. When the hat neared the entrance to their building, Remus left his perch and moved to the kitchen to watch his glass.

She joined him less than a minute later, cheeks flushed from the evening chill. She peeled off her gloves and darted under his shirt, pressing her frozen hands against his bare back. He laughed silently and just kissed her cold lips. Autumn used to be Remus's favorite season. Until he fell in love with a woman with horrible circulation, a woman who relied on sex and incessant cuddling to stay warm. Then Remus started to see the advantages of winter.

Dora gave him a quick squeeze and then, with a smile, broke the embrace. She leaned against the doorframe and attempted to untangle her long scarf from her travelling cloak. "I know you've already broken into the celebratory whiskey stash- No, don't deny it, you tasted like barley when I kissed you- but I need tea. Put the kettle on, hon. It's been a long day."

Remus stretched out on the sofa, arranging a few pillows to better support his lanky frame. While the mug of tea steamed unnoticed by her elbow, Tonks scanned over a few messages an owl had dropped off in her absence.

"How was the day off?" She asked him, eyes never leaving a letter from her mother.

"Bit dull. I finished the housework before I'd even had a proper breakfast. Oh, and I read the newspaper for the first time in three months."

"Something besides a long Muggle novel? I'm impressed."

"Well I ended up with a long Muggle novel eventually. Got too pissed off at the newspaper. I mean, it's better than last year, when they were smearing Harry and Dumbledore. But there are only a handful of real journalists left in Wizarding Britain, and none of them work for the _Prophet_."

"Be a bit more subtle with your compliments, dear."

Her tone was even, but she had to take a deep drink of tea to hide the growing smile. Nymphadora Tonks held one of the most coveted bylines in Britain, chief political correspondent for _Merlin's Attic_ , a subversive radical journal often described as all the nonconformity of _The Quibbler_ mixed with a dose of sanity and actual respect. Though blacklisted last year, Dora had returned to work with a vengeance, publishing dozens of articles that eviscerated the corrupt political and judicial system.

Remus turned his mug in his hand, watching the patterns of the tea leaves. "It's… um… it's been three days since Dumbledore gave me a job. No nice spot of sabotage, no person he wants killed."

"Think you're losing your touch?"

He gave her a skeptical look. "I don't think he's lost faith in me. But we're in a full-out war and he hasn't sent me on any raids. No, I'm worried he's giving me a break before he hits me with something dangerous and highly unpleasant."

She set her lukewarm tea to boiling again with a quick tap of her wand. She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear and moved toward Remus.

"I saw Sirius today."

His face did not change, but his spine grew rigid. Remus set his teacup aside and leaned forward, muscles trilling.

"How?" His tone was flat, more a statement than a question.

"I was interviewing Kingsley for a piece on Auror recruitment tactics. You know he visits Sirius once a week? In theory to interrogate him, actually to keep him from going insane in solitary confinement."

"I know," Remus said roughly.

"Well he brought me along today. He's Kingsley Shacklebolt, no one's gonna question him. Ever since the battle in the Department of Mysteries-"

"How is he?"

Tonks knew he wasn't talking about Kingsley.

"It isn't Azkaban. Small blessing, I know, but they'd never put him back in a facility he's already broken out of. A prison in the Hebrides is grim, but it isn't Azkaban."

"How is he?" Remus repeated in the same tone.

"He looks like shit. He's got the ragged hair and beard again. Hasn't been sleeping much."

"He never sleeps much."

"Remus, this is worse than usual. He looks haunted again."

"Is he being….mistreated?"

"The other prisoners worship him, the guards fear him. He screams in his sleep, still, but that just reminds the other inmates that's hard, that he survived Azkaban. For now. If he keeps having nightmares like that, they might reconsider. See him as weak. And then…"

Remus forced down the painful thought. "Did he have any… any messages?"

"There were other guards in the room, he couldn't talk freely. Had to act deranged, which he did quite poorly."

Remus covered his face, his fingers, as always, unconsciously lining up with his scars. "I'll talk to Dumbledore. We have to get him out." He cut his girlfriend off as she moved to speak. "I know the risks, physical and political. But we can't just sit here while Padfoot rots in prison! Again!"

She crossed her legs. "You think I don't feel the same way? He's my family. But Remus, even if we freed him, we still have enemies in the Ministry, people who know the truth about Sirius. They're looking for any excuse to take us out the fight, and a prison sentence for aiding a fugitive would fit the bill."

He massaged his temples. "Dumbledore wants a meeting tomorrow. I'll use Sirius to bargain. His freedom as the price of my cooperation on… I don't know what. Whatever mad scheme he's dreamt up."

Dora joined him on the sofa. She placed her head in the usual nook between his neck and shoulder, their perfect fit.

"That's tomorrow. Tonight I just need to forget."

She unbuttoned his shirt, her touch so delicate he didn't notice until her hand was already exploring him.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Remus dressed in a hunter green sweater and a pair of dark jeans. He was satisfied to have found trousers with no rips or patches but, on further reflection, added a dress shirt and opted for brown slacks. Looking like a functioning adult sometimes made him feel like one. That was vital today because Dumbledore often made him feel like a dazed second year again. Especially when they fought on matters of strategy. As they would today.

Remus left the bathroom and fumbled with the pin of his travelling cloak. Tonks raised a hand to shield her eyes from the morning sunlight. She sat up in their bed, the duvet falling to her waist.

"You can say no."

"We don't even know what he's going to ask," he said.

"Doesn't matter. You can still say no."

He took a generous handful of Floo Powder and moved toward the fireplace.

* * *

Fifteen years ago, Dumbledore had tracked Remus to a ramshackle cottage in Northumberland, where the young werewolf was in the final stages of a desperate plan.

Robbed of his friends in a single night, without family or financial support, both spiritually traumatized and physically mutilated, Remus was ready for an end.

He would break into Azkaban, murder Sirius Black, watch his former friend bleed out, and then take poison before the Dementors claimed him.

Dumbledore and his former student had argued for a full seven hours, stopping only when a furious Remus needed to pace around the cottage in the rain. Both said things they regretted, and Remus discovered new continents of pain and masochism. Yet when the sun rose, Dumbledore had talked the young man back from the brink and gained a servant for life.

For the next twelve years, Remus was not just the last active member of the dormant Order, he _was_ the Order of the Phoenix. Spying. Stealing. Killing. Exactly the life he'd hoped to leave. But Dumbledore paid him, and werewolves could not be too picky about employment.

After his tenure as a Hogwarts professor, Remus had moved out of the shadows and back into regular Wizarding society. His job, as ever, was to protect Harry. And after a year trying to track down and murder Sirius Black, Remus now spent a year trying to track down and murder the people who embroiled Harry in the Triwizard Tournament.

That year wasn't all glum, though. He was even able to fall in love with a journalist covering the spectacle.

As Voldemort's presence returned to England, Remus was joined by the old gang, the former soldiers who had faced the forces of darkness the last time. When the Order of the Phoenix was formally reestablished, Remus was surprised to find himself in a respected leadership position, able to debate with Dumbledore and shape the direction of the war effort.

Remus Lupin arrived ten minutes late, delayed by the greetings of former students and a lengthy discussion with Ginny on the side effects of a certain potion. His tardiness caused him a surprising amount of anxiety. Something about Dumbledore's office still intimidated him, after all these years. Dora suggested he charmed the place to frighten 11-year-olds sent to him for disciplinary reasons. Sirius, who had had numerous disciplinary troubles during his term at Hogwarts, admitted the theory had merit.

Dumbledore stood with his back to Remus, his hands joined, the blackened with the white, the withered with the hale.

"I'm sorry, sir-"

Dumbledore raised a single finger in warning. "No need for explanations. Our students always delay you with their well-wishes. I know how much you are admired here. After a long string of horrid Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, we tend to appreciate the good ones. Do sit down."

"Well, Harry always thanks me for being the only DADA teacher who didn't try to kill him. Which, if you think about it, isn't true."

The morbid joke collapsed when Remus's voice wavered slightly. He hid his distress, to little avail. The night he had transformed in front of Sirius and the children, when he endangered innocent lives and allowed Peter Pettigrew to escape…the memory still haunted him. Dumbledore coughed gently and smiled at Remus, his eyes filled with compassion.

The Headmaster eased into his chair. "Although I would like to stray into happier subjects, I'm left with little choice. Please examine the paper on my desk."

In fact, on Dumbledore's desk were six letters, a stack of hand-written intelligence reports, a scroll that seemed to emanate dark magic, two copies of _The Daily Prophet,_ and one issue of _Merlin's Attic,_ opened to Dora's most recent column.

"Perhaps I should have been more specific." Dumbledore waved one lazy finger. A short report with the letterhead of the Auror Department drifted into Remus's hand.

Remus began to skim. He felt sickness and dread, though rather less than he had expected.

"Kingsley sent this a few days ago. One of his Aurors, a young Irishwoman named Saoirse Donovan, has apparently been tracking this band for three weeks."

Remus finished the report and then began to reread. "So Fenrir Greyback is attempting to unite the werewolves into a single pack."

Dumbledore inspected a bowl of Eton Mess that had suddenly materialized on his desk. "Your thoughts?" He asked between bites.

"Our kind tend to be solitary. I expect he's having little success."

The older wizard delicately wiped a spot of cream from the corner of his lips. "Did you note his new recruitment method?"

"Sir, I wouldn't say 'new.' Combing the streets, the slums, the halfway houses- he did that last time. They bring in a homeless werewolf for healing treatment, give him a place to sleep and some new clothes. All good so far. They instill the wolves with pride, tell them wizard society has vilified them unjustly. Again, a well-needed charity. Most of the poor sods have never seen such kindness in their lives. So they forget to be suspicious. And by the time they move from rehabilitation to radicalism, it's too late. They've been converted. They'd never dream of fighting alongside a monster like Greyback, not without this kind of manipulation. First he criticizes wizard society, then he teaches them to hate it, to destroy it."

Dumbledore pressed his hands into a steeple. "Most of that… wasn't in the Auror's report."

He felt himself flush. "Like I said, these are old tactics. They did it last time. They look for the young, vulnerable people who won't notice the slide into terrorism."

Remus could not meet his protector's eye. He shook his head slightly and let his long hair fall across his face. It was part of their unspoken contract that Dumbledore would never inquire into the darkest moments of Remus's life, the months after the loss of his friends.

"Clearly some are able to break away," Dumbledore said slowly.

Remus exhaled and flipped his hair away from his face. "Regardless, I don't think this merits notice. So he's using the same recruiting tactics as last time. Building another army for Voldemort."

"Perhaps not. Fenrir Greyback is depraved, but he's intelligent. No, he's building a _mercenary_ army."

Remus leaned forward.

"Voldemort's theories of blood purity estrange many werewolves. You know better than anyone the revulsion Bellatrix Lestrange feels at your… relationship with her niece. Yes, Voldemort has made deals with other outcasts, but if he wins this war, he will turn on his own allies."

"So Greyback's not offering his services to the Dark Lord?" Remus asked.

"He's building an army. If Voldemort doesn't except his terms, he'll turn to the Ministry. Offer them a vanguard, a fighting force our society considers expendable. And if the Ministry refuses to…how should I say it…"

"Dirty their robes with our kind?" Remus suggested.

"Then Greyback will take advantage of the chaos. While the Ministry and the armies of darkness try to destroy each other, he'll sweep in himself."

Remus leaned back in his chair. The full moon was still a week away, but he could already feel the stiffness, the way his muscles felt a bit too small for his frame.

"At the helm of an army, Greyback could cause unknown devastation."

There was a second facet to their agreement: Dumbledore would never give orders. He would merely insinuate, request. And Remus would understand, understand and obey.

"Surely I'm more useful to you on the front lines, not spying on a bunch of scavengers."

"My dear Remus, in times like these, scavengers are the most resilient and dangerous of the lot. Besides, don't assume a mission isn't useful because it happens in the fringes, not the front lines. A spy does more than just pass information up a nebulous chain of command. A very good spy can change the course of a war."


	3. Chapter 3

_This is the last chapter of talking before the plot gets started. This is also where I start to justify the M rating. As always, I don't own Remus Lupin, and thank you for reading!_

"I think it's disgusting, the way he manipulates you."

"Dora-"

"He's been playing with you for fifteen years. No, longer. He manipulated you all into joining a war- a fucking war- when you were too young to understand."

In frustration, Remus tossed his scarf across the room. "It's not like he passed out uniforms to third years. I was of age when I enlisted."

"Honey, I didn't say you weren't an adult, I said you were too young to understand. The two are **not** mutually exclusive."

Remus took a moment to force down the simmering annoyance before it could turn into anger, the fuel for his darker side. He retrieved his scarf and hung it in their closet, taking exaggerated caution to loop it three times around the hanger.

"You're his best soldier. Why would he hide you in some cave in the wilderness?"

Remus crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Because this is an important mission only I, by definition, can do."

"It's also the single worst thing he could do to you. We've spent years helping you face your condition. And now Dumbledore's tossing you into that hellstorm. It will undo all of Sirius and I's work."

Involuntarily, he flinched at the name.

"Is this about Sirius?" Tonks asked. "Is Dumbledore punishing you? Because it wasn't your fault, what happened."

"I was commanding that mission. So it's my fault Sirius is back in prison."

"Wait, so you admit Dumbledore is punishing you? And you still let that sick fuck order you around?"

"He's not punishing me. He said that if I was successful-"

"A euphemism for 'if you survive'."

"Then he would pull a few strings, let me lead a mission to free Sirius. Honey, he's not punishing me. And no, I'm not punishing myself. This is my payment. I'm taking a great risk infiltrating Greyback's ranks, so he'll take a great risk springing Sirius."

Tonks rested her head against his chest, slipping her tiny, cold hands into his own. "You've spent your entire life covering up this part of your nature, purging any sign of the wolf. You can't suddenly blend in with them, there are too many marks of wizard society on you."

He collapsed onto his back and looked at the ceiling, now bare, but which on so many nights had been enchanted to show the Northern Lights, the galaxies of distant universes, the familiar constellation from which Sirius drew his name.

"You said 'covering up.' Concealing. That implies I have the wolf's instincts. It won't take me long to revert. I'll find a grim city in the north, a place their recruiters are already combing. I'll spend a few days on the streets, peeling off any smooth edges. And once the full moon comes… then they'll take me. I'll stay a few weeks, maybe a few months. Until the job is done."

"I don't approve. You feel too obligated to Dumbledore to question his commands."

"This is what I need to do. I'll leave tomorrow morning." He talked over the sound of her protest. "The wolves… unless they see me before the full moon, they won't approach. I have to leave as soon as possible."

She laid down next to him but stayed silent.

"Please, let us part on a better note than this," Remus begged.

"I'm going for a walk. We'll talk when I get back."

* * *

The walk became a three hour march through the snowy night. She wedged her hands under her arms and shielded her face from the wind. She was already pacing down Piccadilly before she realized, in her rush, she had grabbed the wrong scarf. She inhaled Remus's scent with every breath.

The streets were almost deserted, and by the time she returned to the flat, the snow had almost stopped. She trudged upstairs and left her wet boots outside the door.

Remus, despite his best efforts, had fallen asleep. An orb of yellow light revolved lazily around his head, and a magazine was folded across his lap. Past boyfriends had snored or sneezed or breathed heavily in bed, an annoyance that had evolved into a soothing rhythm. But Remus, conditioned by war, slept completely still and silently. He could fall asleep instantly. He also woke up instantly when she started to undress him.

Thinking himself under attack, Remus jerked his body around and lunged instinctively for his wand. She jumped back to avoid a hex.

"There are worse ways to wake up," he noted as she pulled off his boxer briefs.

Tonks buried her hands in her sweater and took an uncomfortable seat on the headboard. "I have a few terms for this mission. If you agree, I'll give you a proper goodbye."

Remus perched on his elbow and stretched out. She flicked an appreciative eye down his leanly muscled, heavily scarred frame.

"So me being naked… is this an intimidation tactic?"

"Yes. Slightly more transparent than the ones Dumbledore uses on you. Stripping prepares you for possible rewards but also increases your vulnerability."

Remus looked anything but vulnerable. "I must say I rather enjoy your manipulation."

"My terms are as follows. One: you keep me updated on your location, before and after recruitment. Two: whenever you send an intelligence report to Dumbledore, you send me an update on your exact situation. You'll tell Dumbledore what the werewolves are planning. You'll tell me who's putting you in danger. Understood?"

"Two conditions?" He sat up. "These things tend to come in threes."

"Three: you let me orchestrate things in your favor. I'm your puppet master, not Dumbledore. And you don't throw a hissy fit if I try to rescue you."

"These are dangerous werewolves. Certified monsters."

"And I'm a member of the Black family, much truer to the norm than Sirius will ever be. I have more dark magic than anyone in the pack. I can protect you."

He leaned forward and ran a hand down her back. "I know that. I accept all your terms. And I'll even add a fourth. I promise this won't come between us, that I won't become a pitiful, self-hating asshole again."

She pushed him on his back and slowly pulled off the wool sweater. "Good. I spent a lot of time and effort getting rid of your pitiful, self-hating asshole qualities." She unfastened her bra and teased him with it before tossing it over her shoulder. "Now time for a proper send-off."

* * *

It had been a proper sendoff, but nothing could forestall the morning; no amount of happiness could still burn days later. Remus lived in his memory now, but memories shifted with time, the truth molding slyly into the stories he told himself. They were his lifeline, but he was afraid to return to them, lest in being handled the memories lost their power.

Remus was luckier than most werewolves, in that he had friends and a powerful benefactor. However, his week on the streets of Muggle Manchester was not the first time he had been forced to beg.

Each morning, he found a spot on a main pedestrian street. Wrapped a ragged blanket around his shoulders and set an old mug a few inches from his feet. He never received more than £5 a day, for one very obvious reason. Former lovers, male and female, had been attracted to the scars that gashed from his temple to his jaw. But this only worked when he was immaculately dressed, when he was clean-shaven, when his shoulder-length hair shone. Once he stopped being fastidious about his appearance, his scars moved from a turn-on to a terror.

He watched the pedestrians through the curtain of lank hair. Being homeless was more than invisibility; people didn't just look through him, he became a sort of negative space, a black hole. They walked with necks rigid to avoid seeing him.

But he saw them. It was his only diversion. He watched businessmen swing their briefcases in time with the clacking of polished shoes. Parents pulled their children close when they passed, but the kids still watched, bright round faces peeking out from behind a protective arm. And then there were the lovers. Smiling young people, leaning in to share each other's warmth. They didn't ignore him because, in their happiness, they never even noticed him.

Not everyone avoided him, of course. Some crossed the street to get closer, some held his gaze a little too long. They were subtle, but Remus knew them for what they were: Greyback's men. Spies had a nationality all to their own. It was the first thing you learned in espionage. How to spot one of your own.

The sudden pain in his arm jerked him from his reverie. The burn was never bad, but it startled him, this unorthodox method of communication. Since arriving in Muggle Manchester, he had been under the protection of a benefactor, one who stayed invisible, but whose identity he never doubted. Three times a day, a specific location in the city was tattooed on his arm. The mark disappeared only when he had recovered whatever cache of food Tonks had stashed in some alley or locker.

The gesture pleased and embarrassed him in equal measure. He gave almost all the food to his comrades on the street, people who would never question his endless supply of home baking, many of them werewolves younger and more miserable than himself. He wasn't wholly motivated by generosity. After losing a little weight, the lines on his face grew sharper, hawk-like. The great slashing scars on his face became even more pronounced. He looked the part, in a way Greyback's recruiters couldn't miss.

The clink of coin jolted Remus from his reverie. He looked up to give a nod of thanks to an older woman watching him with maternal concern. When she entered a shop behind him, Remus was stunned to see Nymphadora Tonks, blazing pink hair and all, striding down the street.

He scooted back in surprise, scanning the street for Fenrir Greyback's watchers. Tonks played her act well, positioning her entire body to avoid facing Remus. But as she passed him, she seemed to trip for just a moment. She reached a hand out to steady herself, tossing a Muggle £50 note into Remus's lap.

Remus gave the money to another werewolf less than an hour later. Tonks's real charity had come just an instant later, as she was straightening up. For just a moment, their eyes met. That was one memory that hadn't faded for him. The way she looked at him, with more pride than concern, more love than fear.


	4. Chapter 4

The most wanted and feared criminal in the Wizarding World was currently thinking about poetry. Sirius Black sat on the floor, his legs splayed out at an uncomfortable angle, his back resting against the metal struts of his bunk. Although the cell was designed to contain no distractions, he still closed his eyes, for the ritual of it.

" _It is an Ancient Mariner and he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The Bridgegroom's doors are opened wide and_ _I_ … fuck… _and I am next of kin_. _The guests are met, the feast is set_ -"

Sirius lost his place when he heard a door open at the end of the corridor. He continued his recital, using the approaching footsteps as a metronome.

 _"_ _He holds him with his skinny hand. 'There was a ship,' said he._ No. _'There was a ship,'_ _ **quoth**_ _he. 'Hold off! Unhand me…. Grey…. Grey-beard loon."_

He heard the footsteps stop a few feet away.

Sirius opened his eyes and grinned at the two guards. _"Eftsoons his hand dropped he,"_ he finished with a flourish.

"You're just as deranged as they say."

Sirius grabbed the bars of his bed to pull himself up. "You've got to keep the mind sharp- it's the first thing to go." He grinned again. "I know a thing or two about prisons."

At a guard's impatient signal, Sirius crouched in the corner, his back to the men, his hands stuck out behind him. He heard the cell door open and could almost feel the twin wands trained on his back. The urge to bolt was so strong his legs twitched. Then one guard cuffed his hands behind his back, while the other clapped manacles onto his legs.

"They already took me for my exercise today," Sirius remarked.

Without a word, the two youths in uniform turned him by the shoulders and maneuvered him from the cell. He was docile at first, until they left the secured wing where Sirius was kept in solitary confinement. When he was again under the gaze of his fellow inmates, Sirius played his part. His posture improved, and he tossed the dark hair from his face. Even though they always watched him during his one hour exercise period, many of the convicts now left their bunks and leaned against the bars for a clearer look. He was the living legend, the only man to escape Azkaban and one of the few to survive it. He was their patron saint, a hardened ex-con who made them tougher by association.

It was all a sham, of course. He was the weakest of the bunch. But Sirius knew what was expected of him, and he acted his role to perfection.

The scrutiny lasted until they reached one of the secure inner cells used for interviews and meetings with lawyers. Again, the guards jammed their wands into his ribs, the first syllables of horrid hexes ready on their lips. One guard removed the manacles on Sirius's legs, while the other strapped him into a chair. His handcuffs dragged his arms to a new resting place on the tabletop.

Kingsley Shacklebolt watched the whole procedure from the other side of the table, a vaguely amused expression on his face.

"You may leave us," he told the guards.

"I'm sorry, sir, you're not allowed to be alone with him."

Kingsley stopped toying with his earring and faced the two men. "I'm interrogating Sirius Black on a matter of national security. You don't have the clearance to overhear-"

"Prison regulations-"

"I will be discussing state secrets with this man. Do you really think prison regulations match the safety of Wizarding Britain?"

Sirius stole a glance over his shoulder at the two abashed guards.

"Very well, sir," said one so young his stubble was still light and patchy. "Be sure to call us if he attacks you."

"Thank you, but I'll kill Black myself if he attacks me."

The guard gave Kingsley a botched salute. When the door at last closed, Sirius let out a high-pitched laugh and fidgeted against his bonds.

"Damn good strategy, Kings. Just know you can only pull that bluff so many times."

Kingsley adjusted his hat. "If they keep sending us such green guards, I imagine that trick will work many times."

"I just thought… maybe save it for an emergency."

"How do you this isn't?" Kingsley asked in a low tone.

Sirius didn't hear. Freed from the constant scrutiny of guards and fellow inmates, he could drop the guise of deranged criminal. "It was worth it, just to see Jamison blush... normally got a wand so far up his arse... Jamison, that was the young one, by the way. Well, they're both young, but you know," Sirius rambled on. "Good to really talk again. Though I would have loved to speak freely last week, when you brought my old 'cuz. Great to see Tonks again, even if I had to act like a lunatic killer to keep the guards from getting suspicious. Really mate, thanks."

Kingsley did his best to stop the flow of words. He gesticulated wildly and scooted his chair back until, suddenly afraid that excess mobility was insensitive in front of an imprisoned man, he slipped back into rigid posture. "I'm glad you enjoyed her visit. I was worried-"

"Worried that I wouldn't want to see Tonks!?"

"You two are so close… I was afraid it would hurt you."

Sirius let out another strained laugh. "Of course it hurt! But there's good and bad pain." Seeing Kingsley's skeptical expression, he continued. "Like the last time, knowing I was innocent. That was a painful thought, so the Dementors couldn't suck it out of me. Kept me alive. Good pain. Kept me sharp. And seeing the people I love… same thing."

Kingsley averted his eyes. His wife accused him of being emotionally stunted, a charge he hotly denied. Regardless, he never knew how to handle bursts of emotion from the most wanted man in Britain. "I understood you'd have rather seen Tonks alone, but because of her radical reputation, the guards wouldn't leave her unattended. This time though… well, as it happens, I do need to speak freely with you."

Sirius stiffened when he heard Kingsley's grim tone.

"It's about Remus."

Sirius lunged forward, but the bonds pulled him back to the chair. "What's happened?"

"Try not to be alarmed?"

"Tell me what's happened! Is he… oh god… is he still alive?"

"Sirius-"

"Tell me what's happened!"

"He's alive!" Kingsley shouted, exasperated. "And he's not hurt either."

Sirius stopped fighting his restraints, but he watched the Auror with furor.

"He's gone on a mission. A useful but dangerous mission you aren't going to like at all. Now let me explain."

Much to Kingsley's surprise, Sirius did not interrupt. He listened to the story with his eyes closed, letting the words and their implications waft over him. When Kingsley concluded, Sirius asked only one question:

"Is it too late to pull him out of there?"

"Greyback's men picked him up this morning. He's slipped off the grid entirely."

Sirius's final word on the matter was an even, "I see."

"Also, I was ordered to speak with prison authorities and ensure you receive a daily copy of _Merlin's Attic,_ despite its subversive reputation. Tonks is using the old code… she said you would know what that meant."

"I do. Black family secret. Requires a healthy appreciation for the darker arts."

Now it was Kingsley's turn for a skeptical, "I see."

* * *

Kingsley left the prison with a nagging sense he had done something very wrong. An enraged Sirius Black was easy to manage, especially when handcuffed and restrained. But a coy Sirius Black engaging with the deep vein of dark magic that ran in his family… that was another creature entirely.

Sirius himself returned to his cell feeling better than when he had left, which was really not saying much. To his surprise as much as Kingsley's, he wasn't destroyed by fear for Remus. He was terrified, yes. Angry, of course. But the crushing powerlessness he expected to feel? Absent.

He felt ready to work.

Sirius Black and Nymphadora Tonks had a level of shared empathy and intuition one normally associated more with twins than cousins. They also shared an inherited talent for dark magic. Sirius tended to repress his, Tonks tended to dabble with hers. Both saw it as a dangerous but useful reservoir of power set aside for emergencies.

If their darker talents were in play again, his confinement was only a temporal barrier. Tonks would find a way to join the game, and she would pull Sirius into the fun as well. As for Kingsley, he was deeply loyal to the Order's mission, less so to its leaders. And he had a mischievous side few people suspected. He would aid the Black cousins' little rebellion, if only to see what mad scheme they concocted.

Sirius resumed his feat of memorization, coaxing his mind from its slumber. He would need all his intelligence if Tonks got in touch. No. _When_ Tonks got in touch.


	5. Chapter 5

Captain Aethelred watched the four brooms circle the clearing, slicing through the early morning mist in their slow descent. The one familiar face, Greyback's lieutenant Maugrim, made a few expert turns and leapt off his broom while it still hovered three feet above the ground. The new recruits, in contrast, looked ready to tumble off. A night-long fly 48 hours after the full moon was not easy, but the captain had no sympathy for weakness.

"These are the boys from Manchester," Maugrim snapped.

The captain watched the three weary men disembark. One somehow got his travelling cloak knotted around the broomstick and fell in a graceless heap. This lot gave little cause for optimism.

Aethelred addressed the raw recruits in a low voice. "Would anyone like to guess where we are?"

No one responded. One of the new soldiers, a pimply boy who looked barely sixteen, lacked the willpower to pry his head from its resting place on his chest. Thirty seconds passed. The recruits realized Aethelred's question hadn't been rhetorical. At last, one of the three, a man in his mid-thirties, spoke in a gravelly voice.

"Dorset? Maybe a bit further inland."

"And how would you know that?" The captain asked.

"I knew by the stars we were flying south. Beyond that I'm just guessing. We traveled for about eight hours, but Maugrim also made detours to disorient us."

"Howell, you were watching awfully close," Lieutenant Maugrim observed.

"I didn't realize paying attention was a crime," the man named Howell said.

"Being that flippant with an officer is."

Captain Aethelred gave Maugrim a warning look and then turned back to the other werewolves. "Listen up, Mancs. Your recruiter, Lieutenant Maugrim, is the liaison between our squad and Fenrir Greyback. My name is Captain Asena Aethelred, and I will be your commander. If you call me Asena, I will punish you for insubordination. I'm one of the few women in this army, but if you think I'm interested in your advances, I'll do worse. Understood?"

The three men were too exhausted to reply. Maugrim tended to scour the dredges of the underclass, but even _he_ normally managed a higher caliber of werewolf. This lot still hadn't accepted their gifts. They bore the marks of a difficult transformation: the sunken eyes, the shaky limbs. The wolf's senses sometimes lingered, leaving behind an extreme, painful sensitivity to light and smell.

"I know the full moon was only two days ago, but Maugrim and I transformed too. Know why we're still able to serve? Because we're real werewolves. You lot suffer because you're fighting this gift. Transformations are a rebirth, and birth is painful. You're weak because you still want to be human. Humans are fragile. They don't have our strength, our speed, our reflexes. That's the first thing we'll teach you: how to not be human anymore."

"They'll learn," Maugrim promised. "They're not _all_ as hopeless as they look."

The lieutenant guided Captain Aethelred through her inspection of the three recruits. Maugrim introduced the clumsy youth as Kittrick and showed the bite on the boy's forearm. Aethelred first suspected this skinny youngster was a girl who, like herself, had disguised as a man to join Greyback's cause. When she discovered Kittrick was just a reedy, sickly werewolf with no control over his powers, her good opinion faded.

The second recruit, a man named Gunn, showed more promise. The recent transformation still ate at him, but she suspected he'd be tougher once his health returned. But then, she asked to see his mark. The bite on his ankle was not completely healed and was, Gunn admitted, only two years old.

"Cub," she dismissed. After only two years, Gunn was still essentially human.

They moved to the last man, the one who had navigated by starlight with more accuracy than Aethelred would admit.

"We picked him up a few days before the full moon. Name is-"

"Vitharr Howell," the man finished.

Up close, Aethelred saw that his thin frame was corded with muscle. His light brown hair was worn long, and a week's stubble did not entirely conceal the scars on his face.

"Your mark," she ordered.

Most wolves rolled up a sleeve or a pant leg, but Howell bent slightly and brushed the hair from his neck. His was an old bite, a jagged mark that had long ago faded to white scar tissue. For the first time since the brooms had alighted, Aethelred was pleased. People bitten before puberty rarely survived the curse. But those who lived grew up into extraordinarily powerful werewolves.

"You know the significance of a bite on the neck?"

Howell straightened up. "You mean aside from the sexual? I suppose you'll have to enlighten me."

"You'll find out soon enough." The truth behind his bite was a potentially awkward situation, hopefully one she could defuse.

Maugrim was watching Howell with unusual scrutiny.

"You talk awfully posh for a werewolf. Where did you go school?"

"I was educated in Scotla-" Howell broke off when he realized his mistake.

"Your accent isn't Scottish."

Howell flushed with embarrassment but nodded twice.

Maugrim spoke slowly. "Only most of the chav we pick up don't go to boarding school in Scotland. That's what Ministry officials do, not werewolves."

Howell, to his credit, faced the implied accusation. "You've seen my bite. You watched me transform. I'm not a Ministry official."

The Captain held up a hand for silence. "He's not an Auror, that's for damn sure. And if he turns out to be a Ministry rat," she swept her gaze over all the men, "We'll find out soon enough. Now. We've wasted enough time. Get ready for a hike."

* * *

Only the bigger wolf, the one called Gunn, dared question the stupidity of their assignment. There were easier ways to move two tons of rock from the limestone quarry to the site of their new fort. Magic, for one. But to the leaders, the assignment was useful _because_ it was futile.

Of the three, Gunn had the most difficulty, which was why he complained loudest. Despite his bulk, his body was still human, and it rebelled against the countless pounds of stone. The boy was better suited for heavier loads. Kittrick had been recruited the same day as Remus. Despite his youth, he had been a werewolf for nine years and had acquired the enhanced strength. It was almost humorous to see the waif-like boy shoulder his mountainous load.

As for Remus himself, after 30 years of transformations, his body was far less human than he led his friends to believe. He picked his way up muddy hills, unencumbered by the burden. In fact, Remus periodically slid down the slope and added Gunn's load to his own. In truth, he would have loved to feel his muscles burn. Better than the lingering pain of the transformation. Better than the fear clouding his mind.

Not ten minutes in, and he'd already made a mistake. An expensive boarding school in Scotland. His comrades had been abandoned by their families, rejected by any job they applied to, spent more time in jail than out. His privileged background made him an outsider, tainted by wizard society.

He breached the tree cover and approached the growing fortress. Remus chucked his load into the growing pile of stone outside. A few werewolves were smoking outside, watching him- and the rocks- without interest. He suspected the builders wouldn't even use their limestone. A day of wasted labor. Remus stretched his shoulder muscles and headed back to the forest.

"Vitharr Howell."

The captain, the woman called Asena, had just exited the fort.

"You've done enough, Howell. Today was the proving ground, and once the boys get back, we'll make things official."

Remus wanted to give her a polite word of thanks, but decided Vitharr Howell would settle for a curt nod.

"Today was an audition, yes, but we rarely turn people away. Maugrim thinks you're a spy, but he doesn't choose who we take." Asena Aethelred ran a hand through her cropped hair. "Curious what you did to piss him off?"

Remus glanced down the forest path. The other two were nowhere to be seen.

"It's your name. Maugrim was offended you lied to him. I told him to fuck off."

"My name," Remus repeated.

"We do expect recruits to give their real names. But we can't really complain. Almost all the officers uses aliases. Maugrim… he wasn't so much bothered by the fake name than by the one you chose."

The hairs on the back of Remus's neck pricked up. The wolf's fear instincts, stronger than his own, were taking over.

"You may be the only one with a formal education, but Maugrim's got a thing for mythology. Vitharr, I've just learned, is the Norse warrior destined to slay Fenrir. That's a pretty ballsy move. I mean, walking in here, announcing you want to kill the boss… bold."

Remus forced his shaking hand into his pocket. "Calling myself 'Vitharr' doesn't mean I'm a spy. Just means I'm ambitious."

Asena considered this explanation for a few moments. Then she gave his shoulder a friendly slap and disappeared into the woods.

Once the Captain was gone, Remus slid down the trunk, his face hidden by one quivering hand. He'd planned to take a simple alias. Maybe his middle name, John, to remind himself who he truly was. Or maybe "James," to remind him what he was fighting for. But when he'd stood among the dirty, the broken, the semi-literate, he'd felt only pride and disgust, in equal measure. And when they asked his name, he raised his chin and spat out a few foreign syllables, tinged with nobility, shadowed with mythological undertones he thought them too ignorant to see.

Vitharr. The killer of Fenrir.

The mistake angered him not because it was stupid, but because it was arrogant. Because he was proud of his elite education and refined tastes and human girlfriend, more proud than he would admit.

Eaten alive by disgust, Remus edged toward the forest. He'd rather see Captain Aethelred's knowing smirk than the monstrosity of the werewolf camp, with its high timber walls and reeking animal scent.

While Remus wrestled with the mad terror of the wolf's flight instinct, his acute hearing picked up his name, or rather his alias. Choking down horror, Remus turned. Partially obscured by the fat, red sinking sun were two men on the ramparts. He knew the one on the left, with his distinctive waist-length gray hair and wicked facial scars. And to his right was the lieutenant. Maugrim was speaking quickly, while Fenrir Greyback just watched Remus.


	6. Chapter 6

For the first time in two hours, Tonks hadn't worried about the war. On the other side of the glass pane, junior journalists chased deranged owls, editors bickered over the daily crisis, and paper memos spiraled around the ceiling, occasionally colliding with an intern. But she stayed safely ensconced in her office, a tranquil niche in the madness of the newsroom. She kept her quill in one hand and her interview transcripts in the other as the story slowly took shape.

Then she saw Midge, Remus's dwarf owl, scratching at her window.

Her heart almost stopped.

 _Dora,_

 _Can't write long. I think I'll start smoking so I can loiter outside the fort without attracting suspicion. I know you think it's a vile habit and bad for my health so… sorry._

 _We're somewhere in Dorset- still trying to work out the precise location. I've taken detailed notes on recruitment methods and troop numbers and other things you'll find hopelessly dull. Midge is taking my official report to Dumbledore, but I'm writing you because I'm in trouble. Already._

 _I'm not like these people, no matter how I pretend. They've always been suspicious about me. I'm acting like a werewolf now, but it's too late. I've made serious mistakes. The man who recruited me is onto me, but he's staying quiet, for now. He's collecting evidence from the Werewolf Registry before he tells the commanders I'm a spy._

 _I don't know how long I have... but this man is definitely after me. He has connections all over the criminal underworld. If he does enough digging, he'll find out who I really am. I need your help. Please. His name is Maugrim. He's a highly dangerous werewolf in Greyback's inner circle. I know this is a lot to ask, but escape is impossible. I'm just sitting here, waiting for my cover to be blown._

 _It's just as horrid here as I thought. I love you and miss you._

 _RJL_

"I fucking told him."

* * *

Tonks pushed through the street, fighting the urge to whack slow pedestrians with her purse. She had lived in this city her entire life, but London was cobbled together from strange turns and nonsensical dead-ends. She would have been early to lunch, had the cute French bistro been where she thought it was, had a hair salon not stood there instead. So now she was late and semi-lost. Since when did Kingsley frequent cute French bistros anyway?

She jogged across the street, high heels clacking, an irate taxi swerving around her. As she stopped to check her watch, she noticed a child staring at her. With a flash of horror, Tonks realized she was still wearing her pointed hat. Surprising she hadn't caught more people gaping. Londoners seemed immune to odd fashion choices.

Through the curtains of people, she glimpsed Kingsley sitting at a metalwork table on the patio. She sprinted toward him, her messenger bag slapping against her legs.

"Sorry, Kings, got held up at the office."

"Don't apologize to me, but our waitress seemed annoyed."

On cue, an aproned young woman appeared, none too pleased at the delay.

Tonks skimmed the menu while still hovering over the table. "Could I please have a glass of lemonade… and a spring salad with… raspberry vinaigrette?"

"I'll have," Kingsley stared at the menu for a note too long. "I'll have the same."

Tonks maintained her shocked expression as the waitress removed their menus and wineglasses. She plopped into the seat and stashed her pointed hat under the table.

"You're getting a salad? When have you ever eaten salad?" She demanded.

Kingsley played with his fork, as dejected as she'd ever seen him. "Never. They dress it up, fool you with colorful dressing. But I just see a pile of lettuce. And I think to myself 'This isn't for humans. This is food for _cows_.'"

She blinked in surprise at his vitriol.

"But I'm on a diet. That's why we're not meeting in a pub." He scratched his scalp. "But that isn't why we're meeting today. I don't know how you managed to get in touch with him-"

"I embed messages in my newspaper articles. Black Family Secret Code-"

"For my own safety, don't tell me the details. Point is, he responded."

Kingsley produced a letter from the folds of his purple robes. Tonks balanced it for a moment, noting the coarse grain of the paper, the clumsy trifold. She would never mistake the sender.

She opened it to see a page of gibberish.

"I hope you can decipher it, Tonks dear, because I certainly couldn't."

Tonks spread the sheet on the latticed tabletop and tapped her wand twice. The letters leapt off the page, shook themselves free of their paper bindings, and raced into their new configurations.

 _Tonksssssyyyyyyyyyyyy!_

 _Hey there, cuz. So the Black Family Secret Code strikes again? I've been thinking about our little problem, and I'm happy to help._

 _There are plenty of werewolves locked up with me, and most are members of the unofficial "Sirius Black's Azkaban Escape Appreciation Society" (SBAEAS- working on a better acronym). Just had a chat with one of Greyback's boys. Very trusting. He would have given me the entire gameplan, but I didn't want to push my luck. Also, if I found out the entire war operation, Remus's spying would be for nothing and he would be pissed._

 _Anywayyyyy. Your man Maugrim. He's apparently one of Greyback's main recruiters. Kid I talked to said Maugrim's real name is Gabriel Wescott. He's from a small hamlet north of Weymouth._

 _If you're doing what I think you're doing, that should be enough. He's trawling the entire criminal underworld for financial and moral support. You can find him._

 _Be careful, hon. This man is dangerous. Kill him if you need to. But if you capture him, get him sent up here with me. I'll get my minions to steal his toothbrush (That's how you punish your enemies in prison)._

 _Let me know if you cook up any other mad plots._

 _With love,_

 _Padfoot_

 _P.S. I just thought of a better acronym for my fan club. "Sirius Orion Black's Escape was Rad." S.O.B.E.R. You could even add my current status- "Incarcerated in a New Gaol"- and get S.O.B.E.R.I.N.G. Not bad, I think._

Kingsley coughed. "Before you get sucked into Mr. Black's rambles... Are you actually going to find this Maugrim?"

"I wouldn't say 'find.' I'm going to kill him."

"Look, we want him for five or six different offenses. Before he joined Greyback, it was mainly robberies. Now that his finances are secure, he's channeled his aggression into… worse forms of violence."

"You're trying to dissuade me?"

"You're after Maugrim, and so are we. I can send my best Aurors along with you."

Tonks twirled her fork between her fingers. "They'd have questions about your source."

"I could deflect them," Kingsley promised.

Their waitress left the kitchen, bearing two heaping platters of vegetables. Kingsley's mood took a noticeable turn for the worse. Tonks spread her napkin onto her lap and was strangely delighted when the waitress tripped over her bag. Finally, someone clumsier than herself.

Once they were left alone with their salads, Kingsley looked up at her. "I'm trying to keep Remus Lupin from getting killed. This isn't some favor you owe me, it's my job. Please, don't worry about the consequences in the Auror department. Consider my offer."

"I work better alone."

He grabbed her wrist. "You know his full name and his birthplace, and you have no doubt you can find him. That means you're using… a very particular spell. Dark Magic."

Tonks yanked her hand back. "You know I object to that name. Magic can't be evil. It's a tool. Powerful, old magic has corrupted some casters, yes, but I'm not one of them."

Kingsley collapsed back into his chair and looked at the foggy sky. "We've had this argument before. And over the years, you've dragged me pretty far from my original position. I agree now that we're all tempted by… unorthodox magic. And that people like you, with a particular gift, are more likely to be drawn. But Ms. Tonks, you're wrong in one key place. You've drunk heavily from this cup and kept your sanity, so you think you're safe forever. It's not that simple. The risk is lifelong. Even now, if you sink too deep, you can lose yourself. Be careful."

* * *

The first battle of the day was between Nymphadora Tonks and her breakfast. Fifteen minutes into the staring contest, the porridge had started to congeal, and the blueberries had turned fat and soft, dyeing the surrounding milk.

She had woken up- in their queen bed, alone- with such intense nausea it felt like a steel fist gripping her entrails. Tonks always felt sick before a battle, but this was particularly bad. She knew the cause of her ailment, if not the solution. Most members of the Order of the Phoenix had the entire First Wizarding War to come to terms with killing. She alone couldn't stomach taking a life.

Tonks kicked the table leg in frustration. Food was revolting to her now. She took the smallest sip of juice and then scraped the porridge into the bin.

Back in their bedroom, Tonks packed a rucksack with more magical supplies than she'd probably need. She opted for mousy brown hair long enough to braid and wore Muggle hiking boots over a pair of cozy wool socks. On a whim, she swapped her electric blue parka for one of Remus's old pullovers, charmed to fit her slim frame.

She took the Floo network to a pub in Weymouth and set out north on foot. Flying would have been faster, but she needed time to think through her plan. The spell she planned to use was risky, though not for the reasons Kingsley thought. It would guide her to Maugrim, but only when she came to truly understand him. And that would make it even harder to execute him.

This sleepy hamlet received few visitors, but the locals took Tonks for a lost hiker. She sat on the edge of a fountain and forced herself to eat a quarter of a sandwich. Between pained bites, she sized up the village. Here, using only the name Sirius had provided, she would piece together the errant threads of a life.

Gabriel Wescott, the man calling himself Maugrim, was Muggle-born. His family thought he was dead.

She found the small house where Wescott was born. And the smaller house where he had grown up. And then, the even smaller house where he'd passed his teen years. She uncovered medical records for an unspecified, presumably shameful, condition. She found his father's grave and watched his mother, a gray-haired woman with a frantic look in her eyes, preside over her primary school class.

When she no longer wished the man ill, when she for minutes at a time forgot Remus's plight, she knew she had enough information to complete the spell.

Tonks hiked into the secluded woods outside the village. There was no point speculating who Gabriel Wescott might have been- any potential was nipped by an abusive family and the bite of a werewolf. Remus suffered only one of those curses, and his life had been anything but easy. If hit with both blows, if never shielded by loving friends and family, would Remus too have turned to violence?

Tonks didn't want to think so. Surely the man she loved had a higher moral character than this Maugrim. Through tenacity alone, he could withstand hardship. And yet… there was no way to live the life she had, to endure the dark gifts she had been granted, and not understand that good people could be corrupted.

On a lonely, windswept hilltop, Tonks drew the spellcircle, its circumference punctuated by the tokens she had collected from Maugrim's life. She set protective wards around herself and then began to chant.

Like most of the loose collective called Dark Magic, this was an old, elemental spell. And like much Dark Magic, it was a beautiful force that had been corrupted. Centuries ago, separated lovers used this charm to feel each other's lifeforce. But then skiller casters realized it could be used to hone in on enemies as well.

A blue mist billowed around the spellcircle. Tonks forced herself to look into the abyss. The fog shaped itself into roiling phantasms. She saw Wescott's face, watched scenes from his life flit too fast for her eye to follow. Fears and loves crawled around her mind, emotions she knew were not her own.

Twice she nearly cancelled the spell. And then, the magic dropped away, and Maugrim was directly in her sight.

The lonely hamlet was gone. Tonks was standing in the rain, in a grim city of soot and smog. Taxis crept through the downpour, spraying her as they rolled through puddles.

Across the street, her prey was stomping out a last cigarette. She knew him, now, with greater intimacy than she'd felt for many past lovers.

She adjusted her hat and trudged after him. Her sanity didn't seem to have been blown out, but her body was still reeling from the magic.

"For Remus." Tonks hated the bloody duty she had to perform, hated herself for bringing death to another. Years ago, when she had applied to be an Auror, Kingsley Shacklebolt had rejected her because he thought her too empathetic, too willing to see herself in her enemy.

He was right.

Gabriel Wescott rubbed his red hands and ducked into an alley. Tonks took one heaving breathe. Then she drew her wand and followed him.


	7. Chapter 7

In five days, Remus Lupin had made a few allies and at least one blood enemy. He had sent three reports to Dumbledore, injured his ankle, and had, despite Tonks's warnings, taken up smoking.

The new recruits bunked in a small but warm barrack in the middle of the fort. They spent their days building walls and tweaking the shield wards, but once the sun had set, they retired _en masse_ to the campfire, where the gossip flowed as freely as the beer. Remus had sniffed out a few interesting tidbits from drunk officers. Privacy was a precious commodity in the shared barracks, but he scratched out dispatches to Dumbledore when he escaped for smoking breaks.

Much to his delight, Remus had been relieved of today's morning guard duty. He pretended to sleep until Gunn and Kittrick left, then retrieved some filched maps he had stuffed in his pillowcase. Remus quickly wrote a few explanatory notes. When he heard footsteps outside, he slipped the report into a pouch he had sewn to the inside of his trousers.

With a sudden ruckus, the boys from the last guard shift returned to the barracks. Exhausted, most flopped into their bunks without even undressing. Nonetheless, Remus couldn't stop his heart from pounding. He smoothed his trousers, terrified, as usual, that people could see the outline of his smuggled contraband.

There was still a good half hour until Remus needed to report for his work detail. He decided to take his time with shaving. He had already applied the lather and sharpened his razor when he remembered he wasn't supposed to shave anymore. To the werewolves, careful grooming smacked of the wizard aesthetic, and lacking a beard was somehow suspicious and effeminate.

Figuring it was too late, Remus started to shave. This morning habit had proved difficult to ignore. It was precisely _because_ werewolves preferred a more rugged look that Remus had always stayed compulsively clean-shaven.

He had only managed two careful strokes down his jaw when his commanding officer entered the barracks.

"Ain't that a shame, Howell? I rather liked the stubble," Captain Aethelred observed.

Something about her tone seemed vaguely flirtatious, but Remus had a more pressing concern. His shaving kit rested beside the mirror. It was a birthday gift from Tonks. The silvertip brush, the inlaid handle of the straight razor, the burnished leather pouch- a werewolf living on the streets would never own such an expensive item. Remus leaned closer to the mirror, using his body to block the incriminating gift.

"Vitharr Howell," she drew out the false name. "You told me you were ambitious, yes?"

He focused on a tricky patch under his jaw.

"Puzzle for you: How does one get to the top?"

Easy question. The indoctrination portion of their recruitment had focused almost exclusively on the importance of obedience, of submission to the alphas.

"By starting at the bottom," Remus recited.

"Right. I've got an assignment for you, Howell. If your dignity can bear the hit, you'll see it's a plum job. The Commanders are meeting in a few hours. You'll serve us lunch."

Remus gave the captain a skeptical look, but inside he fought hard to suppress excitement. To the top brass, servants were invisible, non-entities. No one would care what he overheard. And even if he didn't learn any major secrets, he'd still get to study the werewolf leaders up close.

Captain Aethelred winked. "If you can hold a pitcher of wine without spilling, you might just learn a thing or two."

Remus reached for his towel and, with one fluid gesture, swiped his expensive shaving kit behind the table. He dabbed at his neck and then turned to Aethelred.

"That shouldn't pose too much of a challenge," Remus said.

"Howell, this isn't an empty favor. People have noticed you. Play your cards right, and you might be an officer someday. The alpha power struggle is dangerous, and I'd like a few people I can trust at the table."

Message delivered, Aethelred left him, tossing a quick salute to the soldier standing guard outside.

Alone again, Remus retrieved his shaving kit and buried it deep in his rucksack. Dumbledore had told him not to seek promotion, for precisely the reasons Aethelred noted. Those who grappled with Greyback to become alpha wolf usually had their throats slit. And yet, Remus was intrigued. He felt useless here, knowing his friends and his lover were on the front-lines of the war against the Death Eaters. But if he could join the game himself, subverting the organization while pretending to advance it… that would be an enticing challenge indeed.

* * *

Despite his height and scars, Remus knew how to act invisible. While the top alphas aimed to fill as much space as possible, Remus flitted about unnoticed as a shadow. He refilled the generously-proportioned wine goblets and drinking horns before the drinkers even noticed they were empty. He kept his head down, to listen all the better. After catching a snippet of intriguing conversation, he moved into the corner and pretended to clean discarded glasses.

"Ajax, did you get an eyeful of that bitch the Ministry sent?"

Hearing his name, a lean werewolf lifted his gaze from the burgundy depths of his wine goblet. Ajax wore a royal blue doublet and had a gnarled black wand. He was younger than most other officers and, unusually, kept his dark hair clipped very close. Something about the man had disconcerted Remus from the start.

The original speaker, a grizzled older man, elaborated. "Horrid woman, face of a toad. And the way she looked at us… like she wanted to pinch her little nose. After her third or fourth comment about our kind, some of my hot-headed boys wanted to attack her."

Aethelred leaned into the conversation. "Apparently she was the one who pushed all that anti-werewolf legislation a decade or so ago. What in Merlin's name was the Ministry thinking? Why send _her_ to bargain with werewolves?"

Ajax held his empty wine cup into the blank space to his right. Within seconds, Remus had appeared at this side.

"Greyback and I have an interesting theory, actually," Ajax said. "Sending an envoy like that seems like the safest way to end negotiations. Which may be the point. This Umbridge woman… she was in Fudge's pocket, but she pivots when times change. Greyback thinks she's working for the Dark Lord, under orders to be as offensive as possible. If we attacked her or burned our bridges with the Ministry, we'd have little choice but to ally with the Dark Lord, no matter what paltry deal he'd offer us."

Remus disappeared back into the shadows, heart pounding. He tried to memorize every syllable of that exchange.

Aethelred let out her breath slowly. "Will that backfire? If we catch the Dark Lord manipulating us, are we more likely to side with the Ministry?"

"I don't care that he tried to manipulate us. That's how this game is played. Besides, both sides detest us. We're going to back whoever gives us the best terms, not whoever treats us with the least disgust."

Remus heard a pointed cough from the other side of the table. Two impatient senior officers gestured to their empty wineglasses. Ajax turned around in his chair and addressed Remus coldly.

"Get a good earful?"

Remus bowed deeply and hurried over to the waiting men with a freshly-uncorked bottle. Faced flushed, Remus started refilling the goblets, hoping his eavesdropping hadn't been so transparent.

"Any idea what we're here for?" The werewolf beside him asked.

His companion nodded. "Apparently Greyback wants to tell us something, something about Maugrim."

Remus's hand shook. The red stream wobbled, but did not spill on the tablecloth. Before the men could continue their conversation, Remus took a few large steps backward and retreated to the shadows.

 _Was this a trap?_ He thought they'd come for him at night, drag him from his bunk before he'd even woken up, start the torture when he was still groggy. But this… luring him into the werewolves's center of power? It was impractical, but it was dramatic. Remus would think he was being eyed for promotion until they clapped him in chains.

They'd disarm him as soon as Maugrim announced the truth. Remus had a knife strapped to his leg. If he could get to it in time…

His tortured reflections were cut short when Fenrir Greyback strode into the room and slammed the door behind him. Greyback was a few inches shorter than Remus, but he automatically became the epicenter of whatever space he entered.

Remus watched him with more interest than usual. Greyback seemed angry, but no more so than usual. And surely if he intended on arresting Remus, he'd at least glance at him. Seizing his courage, Remus stepped toward the commander, armed only with a full pitcher of wine.

Willing his hands not to shake, he began to pour. It was his first time so close to the man he'd been sent to kill. Up close, Greyback's skin was mottled with cobwebs of scars. Fenrir Greyback had been a werewolf far longer than Remus, and with far less healing assistance. The rumor was that the man never used Wolfsbane, but managed to keep his mind when transforming by essentially striking a bargain with his wild half.

"I'll be brief," Greyback said. "My man Maugrim is dead."

Remus took an involuntary step backwards. He lowered his head, in case anyone was watching the sudden emotions play out on his face. _Did Tonks do this? Did she kill him?_

"His report was late. One day late, mind you, but I have no tolerance for mistakes. I'd assumed Maugrim did a runner, defected into whatever comfortable life the Ministry offered him in exchange for information on me. But then my search party found his corpse in an alley in Birmingham."

"Has anyone claimed responsibility for the attack," Captain Aethelred, the one female voice, piped up.

"No. It was a single killing curse. Probably to the back, probably at a distance. Whoever did this didn't leave any traces," Greyback said.

"Well, I'm not too sad. We caught Maugrim skimming off our funds one too many times."

"We caught him embezzling once, Ajax," Aethelred reminded.

"Once is one too many," Ajax said coldly.

Greyback slammed his fist on the table. Five decades as a werewolf had left him with supernatural strength. He dented the wood and sent a few dishes clattering to the floor.

"Whether or not his death was deserved is beside the point. Someone was brazen enough to kill one of my wolves. We let this go unpunished, we look weak. We've got to hit back hard."

"But who was this? Ministry?" someone asked.

Ajax shook his head. "This was an execution. Aurors will kill, but only if they've been attacked first. Same goes for the Order of the Phoenix. As for the Dark Lord... he wouldn't knock off one of our boys while he's trying to recruit us for his army."

"What about local gangs?" Aethelred suggested. "Maugrim's job was to poke around the criminal underworld. He would have made enemies."

Greyback studied a long, chipped fingernail. "Your analysis is correct. But it doesn't matter if we hit the right person, so long as we are seen bringing death and destruction ten times what they inflicted on us. Since the criminal underworld is the best option-"

"We're going to clean out the sewage of Birmingam?" Ajax asked with distaste.

"Effective but not lucrative," Greyback judged. "No, we're going to hit the city so hard everyone is reeling, Maugrim's killers and countless innocents besides. Not just the usual raid. I'm calling in every squad. We're going to loot the city and burn it. Show the killers what they get for insulting werewolves, and show our potential buyers we're worth the price."


	8. Chapter 8

_When Remus had finished his tea and scattered biscuit crumbs on his lap, when their conversation was drawing to a close, Dumbledore had peered over the rim of his half-moon spectacles with paternal concern._

 _"_ _This won't be easy for Ms. Tonks, you know. I can owl her now, say I left you little choice."_

 _Remus had shaken his head. "Thank you, sir, but no. I'll tell her myself."_

 _"_ _I know I'm asking too much of you, Remus. Once you are recruited, we're cutting you loose. You know that, yes?"_

 _"_ _I understand. If I get into trouble, I'm on my own."_

 _Dumbledore had leaned forward. "You will have to break the law many, many times to convince the werewolves you're one of them. And yet, you_ _ **cannot**_ _be arrested."_

 _"_ _Believe me, I have no interest in going to prison."_

 _"_ _I don't think you understand me. Sentiment has never been warm toward your kind, but now Wizardkind trembles at the thought of an independent werewolf army… Your name is linked to Hogwarts and the Order of the Phoenix. If our enemies in the Ministry find out who you are, they'll use you to turn the public against us. Make sure you grasp this. Being arrested won't just be a personal inconvenience, it will be a devastating blow against the Order."_

* * *

Prison was not Remus Lupin's greatest worry, in fact it came eight or nine places down the list. He was terrified of Tonks leaving him, of being unmasked as a spy, of becoming a victim of the alpha power struggle, of being tortured and killed. Arrest was a distant, nebulous concern.

And yet, now his face was with smeared with black paint, he was crouched behind a warehouse, and the five-man squad was passing around their last cigarette. After midnight, ten teams from Greyback's army had claimed hiding spots around the city. At the signal, they would take to the streets and burn the city down.

At the mission briefing, the men had been assured that if they confined their looting to Muggle areas and left the city in less than an hour, they would be asleep in their bunks by the time the Aurors arrived. But Remus was still taking precautions.

Unfortunately, his plans to stay in the rear guard were shattered when Captain Aethelred handed him a club and told him to smash every window he saw. She expected him to be honored by this tribute to his strength. Instead, he was plunged into turmoil. Fading into the night wouldn't be possible. Remus took a long drag and passed the cigarette to Kittrick. He feared he was going to be sick. His left hand pulled the brim of his hat lower down his face, while his right formed a vise around the club.

"Signal should drop any second now," someone called.

The slightest move made Remus want to retch. His nerves hadn't been this bad since the First Wizarding War. Normally he was just fighting fear. This was fear and guilt in equal measure. He'd never been the bad guy before.

From every corner of the city, a low howling arose. Lights flicked on in the apartment building across the street and sleepy tenants peered out from behind the curtains. A few of the other werewolves threw back their heads and joined the call, unchaining the wilder side of their nature.

When the call broke off, the men snubbed out the last cigarette and followed their captain into the street. Their mark was an upscale Muggle shopping district on the north side of the city. Aethelred guided them with an enchanted map that showed them, through a bird's eye view, winding toward their destination. It was vastly inferior in both design and function to the Marauder's Map, a fact Remus found strangely heartening.

He pulled his hat even lower down his face. The few Muggles still roaming the city ducked into newsstands or crossed the street when they saw the pack approaching. Remus's acute hearing picked up the first signs of scuffle on the other side of the city. The three enlisted men started to jog, Kittrick whooping with reckless excitement. The bat in Remus's hands grew heavier by the second.

"Howell," the Captain called. Impatiently, she gestured to the window of a jewelry shop.

Gunn elbowed him in the side. "If you can't do it, give the club to a real man."

Remus pushed Gunn away, harder than intended. He twirled the bat twice between his lithe fingers and then smashed the window. Glass shards tinkled against the rain-slick cement, tumbled into the purple velvet window displays. Behind him, the men laughed. Pushing down his anger, Remus smashed away the jagged edges around the window frame. More glass fell, then greedy hands reached for the diamonds.

They moved down the street, breaking everything that would shatter, stealing everything that wasn't bolted down. Remus did his job. When his arm began to tire, he found strength in his own self-loathing. But with every passing second, he drew more suspicion to himself. He approached his targets in a somber, workmanlike manner, not the reckless glee the others showed.

For the first time, Remus heard cars roaring down the empty streets. A wailing claxon sounded from all sides, and alternating red and blue lights flashed against the buildings. "The hell is that?" someone asked.

Remus's morale dipped even further. "Muggle law enforcement."

Their glee grew even more manic. Remus darted forward and seized Aetheled's arm.

"You can't let them fight the Muggle police."

She pulled away from him. "Don't tell me how to run my operation, Howell."

The approaching sirens tortured Remus's acute hearing. "If you use magic on Muggle authorities, you'll invite the wrath of the Ministry like never before."

To his comrades, now drunk on the wolf's bloodlust, this was an inviting proposition. Before Remus could offer any more arguments, they were surrounded on all sides by police cars. Half the squad marveled over the strange Muggle transportation devices, and half prayed for an end to the unbearable noise.

Remus alone knew what was happening. That the cops stayed behind their car doors because they thought flimsy pieces of metal could save them. That the boxy, black contraptions in their hands were Muggle weapons, that their padded vests protected them from other Muggle weapons. They felt secure against a band of hooligans. And they were wrong.

The Captain raised her wand. He saw a flicker of confusion pass between two policemen, neither recognizing this wooden stick. After a moment of hesitation, Remus pointed his wand at a squad car. Refusing to fire would out him immediately as a spy. He planned to aim high. When the Captain gave the signal, Remus averted his eyes.

* * *

Remus was vindicated soon enough. Minutes later, two dozen Aurors were pursuing them through the bowels of the city. They sprinted through the night's downpour, following a jittery route that etched and re-etched itself onto the Captain's map. He glanced over his shoulder every few seconds, once catching sight of a familiar form in purple robes.

He cursed under his breath, almost wishing for arrest, if it would bring a change of company. The map drew them ever deeper into a warren of wynds and backalleys. With each turn, the walls pressed in closer, and the street grew muddier and narrower. Despite the barrage of profanity, no one was actually surprised when the map guided them to a dead end.

Remus turned, expecting to see the approaching Ministry forces. His ragged breath came out in frozen puffs several times a second.

Captain Aethelred slammed the map against the wall. "This thing was enchanted by the best! I don't understand. It's telling us we can keep going forward."

The young werewolf Kittrick took this to mean there was a charmed secret passageway somewhere. He knelt in the muck and searched for a hidden door, aware he looked foolish. Remus studied the dead end, a sheer wall, rain-slick, tattooed with graffiti. There was no hidden tunnel. There wasn't an ounce of magic here.

Though desperate to flee, Remus forced himself to cling to a few shreds of rationality. The Aurors were close- backtracking would send him sprinting into their arms. The others weren't quite so calm in their analysis. One werewolf darted away from the group, trying his chances with the night. Then Remus had a horrifying thought.

He strode toward the Captain and seized the map. He tried to read in the flickering light of a dying streetlamp, without success. Aethelred lunged for him, but he neatly side-stepped and produced a luminescent blue flame in the palm of his left hand. On closer examination, the map was more sophisticated than he'd originally thought. But it was still wrong. Unaware of the dead end, it coaxed them to walk through the mass of brick and cement.

"Howell!" Aethelred shouted in frustration.

"Who gave you this?" Remus yelled.

"They're... distributed to all the mission commanders during our briefing."

He began to pace, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his ragged robes. Was he jumping at shadows? There were a few scattered clues, yes, but Remus often saw grand strategies where there was only white noise.

Then a searchlight fanned across the alley and the four remaining soldiers pressed themselves against the wall. For a moment, Remus wished he too had fled. Then he heard a scuffle and knew the fifth member of their squad had been captured. Although the arrest was probably happening a block away, Remus could hear every anti-werewolf slur the Aurors shouted.

And with that final, decisive piece of evidence, Remus knew he was right.

"We've been set up," he pronounced. "Attacking those Muggle cops was always going to bring the Ministry, but this is too soon. There's no way they could have put together a team of that size and level of coordination so quickly. And there's no way they already know we're werewolves."

"Someone tipped them off?" Aethelred asked.

"The Aurors were ready for us. And that map led us through their lines and into a trap. Someone planned this."

Without any deliberation, Remus knew exactly what he had to do. It went against all his carefully laid plans, but he knew better than to ignore his instincts.

"Have one man get as far away as he can, then have him set off an explosion. That should draw the Aurors away. Then you can get outside their wards and Apparate back to base. I'll trail them from behind and pick off as many as I can. If I'm not back in camp in an hour, assume I'm dead."

"Howell!" Aethelred yelled, but Remus was already gone.

His mind tried in vain to catch up with his sprinting legs. He felt he was treading at the edges of a major secret, holding a few stray threads but not seeing the larger tapestry. The first step, at least, was clear. He had seen Kingsley, he knew it. This was a rare chance to speak directly with one of his allies. Remus couldn't let this opportunity slide.

A minute later, there was a deafening crash. A cloud of orange appeared in the sky, spreading out above the multi-story apartment buildings. Though satisfied Aethelred and the others had followed his instructions, Remus couldn't help but wince. It would take a small army of Ministry workers to apply enough memory charms to excuse this as a gas leak.

* * *

Kingsley Shacklebolt stopped to watch the pyrotechnics, vaguely aware he should rejoin his fellow Aurors, but also vaguely aware that the billowing, fiery cloud against the drizzling night sky was the most beautiful thing he had seen all month. And while he allowed himself another moment to admire the flames, Remus emerged from a back alley.

"Who tipped you off?" Remus yelled.

Kingsley whirled and almost shot off a hex.

"Remus Lupin? I almost didn't recognize you." Then incredulity turned to annoyance. "What the hell are you doing here? Are you trying to get both our covers blown?"

Remus strode forward. "It's an emergency. When did you get the order to march?"

Kingsley glanced behind him. "It was… maybe two days ago."

"Two days?" Remus blurted.

"Yes, fortunately enough time for my wife to reschedule our dinner party. We were told the werewolves were going to hit hard, and that we should prepare for a fight."

Remus exhaled slowly. It had been only a day since Fenrir Greyback had convened an emergency lunch meeting. Two days ago, no one knew that the lieutenant Maugrim was dead, let alone that they were going to war to avenge him.

"Lupin, you need to run. If either my people or your people see us, we're dead."

"I need you to tell me everything you know about your source, then I need you to break my nose." He watched Kingsley's reaction change. "The others think I'm fighting the Aurors to buy time. If I'm not injured, they'll think I hid."

"I'm sorry, Lupin, but you have to go. There's nothing I can tell you. The source was anonymous. Though… there is one suspicious thing." Kingsley glanced again over his shoulder. "Usually tipoffs come from below, if you get my meaning. My more unsavory coworkers curate networks of criminal informers. But this… the tip came from on high. Very high."

"Who exactly-"

Remus was cut off by a shout.

"Kings, you got one!"

Kingsley's fast reaction saved them both. With a grimace, he raised his wand to Remus's chin an instant before three Aurors joined them. Two had bloodstains on their clothing. Someone else's blood. Remus recognized John Dawlish, but the others were unknown to him.

Kingsley nodded to each Auror in turn and spoke in a slow voice. "I've just detained this man. I've not yet assessed whether he's a werewolf or just a local ruffian."

Without muttering any incantation, Dawlish created a blinding white light. He raised the wand to Remus's face. Remus shied from the bright light, but not before Dawlish saw the incriminating evidence.

"Scars all over his face. Amber eyes. That's a werewolf," Dawlish pronounced.

"Take him into custody," another Auror said.

Kingsley took one step backward and refused to meet Remus's eyes. Dawlish kept his wand raised while the other Auror conjured a heavy set of manacles. Remus's heart was hammering so violently he feared it was audible. Kingsley kept his expression controlled until the other Auror was within a few inches of Remus. Then he gave his friend a low nod.

Remus whipped backwards and, faster than the Aurors thought possible, punched the man in the face. Kingsley reacted first, but purposely shot the spell high. Remus ducked into a crouch and then tackled Kingsley. He tried to be as gentle as possible, but he wasn't sure if Kingsley's shout of pain was faked.

He sprang off Kingsley and dodged another barrage of spells before, at last, facing his attackers with his own wand. Although Dawlish was closer, Remus stunned an Auror in the process of calling for back-up. He took a nasty hex from Dawlish in the process.

Remus stepped back, clutching his shoulder. Kingsley got up as slowly as possible, face set in pain. The performance was so superb Remus felt a sudden spasm of guilt and feared he had broken his friend's ribs.

He ducked left and shot off a spell at a youngish blonde Auror. Foolishly, he turned back to Dawlish before ensuring his other target was down. The other Auror reeled backwards and managed to hit Remus before she fainted. He threw up a shielding spell, buying himself perhaps an extra second to evaluate his options.

His head was beginning to spin, and his blurry vision seemed to lag a few moments behind the real action. He barely managed to dodge another spell from Dawlish. Even worse, Kingsley couldn't continue the façade any longer. With an ashen expression, he shot off two spells at Remus.

Remus sunk into a crouch and gathered his last reserves of strength for a final, desperate attack. Then Kingsley spun neatly and hit John Dawlish squarely in the chest. The other Auror flew backwards in a graceful arch, the trajectory broken when he slammed against the wall.

Remus stared at Kingsley in horror. "Why did you do that?"

"He would have gotten you. You're in a bad state."

Remus pried his left hand off his shoulder to find it was covered in blood. His neck apparently could no longer bear the weight of his head.

"But you attacked one of your own. When the Ministry finds out-"

"No one will find out unless you tell them, Lupin. Dawlish won't remember a thing. Also, I can't stand the man. I've wanted to hex him since I first met him, so thanks for giving me the chance."

Remus leaned against a lamppost and scanned the backalleys and rooftops for Greyback's watchers.

"I have to go. The longer I stay away, the more suspicious they'll be," he said.

"Why go back at all? You've provided solid intelligence for Dumbledore. Surely you've done enough. And this might be your best opportunity to escape. I can make sure Greyback's boys see me arrest you, then I can drop you off back at Tonks's flat."

Hearing her name, Remus collapsed against the lamppost again. Kingsley didn't understand the power of the temptation he was waving. To lay in bed, safe and warm, with the woman he loved, to run his calloused hand down her bare back…

"I can't." Remus started to limp away. "Something big is happening here. I don't know what, but I can't ignore my instincts. This mission may be more important than Dumbledore suspected."

Kingsley followed after him, apparently unhurt from the tackle. "Don't be so sure. I mean, I believe something important is brewing, but not that you've caught Dumbledore off-guard. I always thought it was odd he sent you to this backwater when there's a war on. Maybe you're just now realizing why he really sent you here."

Surprisingly, Remus was annoyed by Kingsley's words. He gave his friend a brusque nod and tried to massage some life back into his limp arm.

"One more thing, Lupin. Greyback doesn't like men wandering off during battle. Just because you didn't see any of his eyes didn't mean you weren't watched. You go back, you may be heading to your death."

Remus wrapped his injured arm around his body and trudged away from Kingsley.


	9. Chapter 9

A single dainty spider traversed the cell's ceiling. Sirius lay on his back watching it, hands tucked behind his head. As the burning in his stomach dimmed, he watched the spider's journey back to its silvery web. And then, as he had so many times since his arrest, he started again.

200 sit-ups in short succession. The flimsy bunk couldn't anchor his legs in place, and his knuckles rapped against the concrete floor with every repetition. After ten, his muscles were screaming again. He counted under his breath, moving so quickly his head felt unscrewed.

After a few dozen, the pain in his abdomen lulled into a dull ache. His breathing synced with the rhythm of his body, and- most importantly- the exercise shooed away his thoughts. After he crossed 100, mental oblivion returned. He was like the studious spider above, endlessly working, with never a glimmer of consciousness.

That's how Sirius Black liked it. Consciousness was a burden.

His reverie shattered when a slot in his door popped open, and a guard pushed through a lunch tray. In no mood for eating, Sirius lay on his back panting, one hand resting on his stomach. He could have laid there indefinitely, with nothing to do and a life sentence of empty time to do it.

Then he saw what else the guard had pushed into his cell: the latest copy of _Merlin's Attic,_ the radical weekly he would have found insufferable if his favorite cousin wasn't the star columnist.

In too much pain to stand, Sirius slid toward the door. He pushed aside the food with one disinterested foot and pawed through the magazine.

Directly after the masthead was Tonks's article, a lengthy exposé on corruption in the recent Wizengamot elections. Sirius skimmed the outraged prose while a photo of Tonks gave him a huge gap-toothed grin. In her author portrait, she wore a green cloak with a bewitching amber pin. Despite pressure to look professional with conservative clothing and the wavy chocolate-brown hair she broke out on formal occasions, Tonks had insisted the portrait show her infamous pink pixie cut.

The pink hair clashed violently with the red beret Remus gave her on her last birthday. Only an astute reader of _Merlin's Attic_ would have noticed that, in most issues, her head was bare. Sirius was delighted. The red hat was part of their code, a signal she had embedded a message in the article.

Sirius scooted back to his bunk. Any communication from the outside world made him almost giddy, but word from Tonks was particularly exciting. Made magnanimous by delight, he almost read her actual article.

Without magic, it took the rest of the day to unscramble the message.

* * *

 _Dearest Pads,_

 _For starters, it was too risky to send a thank you note, but the tip on Maugrim worked perfectly. He's dead. And I haven't suffered any lasting consequences from the dark magic, thank you very much._

 _Quick update on life in general before we get to meatier stuff: Harry sends his love. He's gonna smuggle like sixteen letters through Kingsley. Ron and Hermione wrote too but didn't want to test the patience of Kingsley Shacklebolt. And speaking of Weasleys, you have an unexpected new admirer: Molly. Now that you're in prison, she admits you are brave and heroic and ravishingly handsome. She promises to cook a huge feast when you get out (but her hate will probably return when she has to interact with you again)._

 _Now. Onto business. I got a long letter from Remus this morning. The werewolves decided to go a-raiding, and my boyfriend (for unknown reasons) decided to hold off the Aurors and let everyone escape. I know. I was appalled too. Kingsley isn't pissed, which is more than I can say._

 _Obviously,_ _ **we**_ _know he hasn't turned his cloak. But apparently the survivors hailed him as a hero. Remus says he had this intense meeting with Greyback and his alphas, and that he was pinned as officer material and will command troops in the next battle. He's happy because officers get their own room- hard to write long spy treatises in the barracks._

 _Remus and I view this with separate but equal paranoias. I suspect this "promotion" is a way for the alphas to keep an eye on him. And Remus has turned into a raving nutter. With a few hairpin clues- apparently the Aurors were tipped off- he now sees this giant conspiracy of werewolves and Aurors and Death Eaters that will change not only the war, but the very foundations of wizard society (I'm exaggerating, but not as extravagantly as you think)._

 _I think the clues point to an alpha power schism, but Remus sees another spy in the ranks. He thinks one of the alphas is in the pocket of either the Death Eaters or the Ministry, and that the spy is killing anyone who gets too close to the truth._

 _If this is a Ministry agent, we'll let him work. But if this is a Death Eater, we have to find him, disrupt his operations, and kill him._

 _I realize this mission is so vague it isn't really even a mission. Remus is convinced he's onto something big. I think he's a bleeding idiot, personally, but I love my bleeding idiot. I'm trawling my contacts in the underworld. Do what you can._

 _With love,_

 _Tonks_

* * *

By the time Sirius was released into the freezing rain for his daily hour out of the cell, the germ of a plan had already formed. Though tempted to start immediately, he forced an uncharacteristic show of restraint. For the next three days, he reviewed his plan, finding every minuscule flaw, scripting not just his words but his gestures.

On the third day, when the guards took Sirius to the prison yard, he could barely control his excitement. He forced himself to job two laps around the fence, risking sidelong glances at other prisoners. His fellow inmates still scrutinized him, hunting for signs of strain. Normally Sirius Black, scion of an ancient family, the most accomplished spy and criminal this century, walked aloof among them. But today, he peeled off from his fence perimeter and rejoined the other inmates. They were shocked, as if a god had deigned to walk among them.

Sirius headed toward a slender young man who sat alone on a metal table. He wore a thick pair of glasses which he wiped clean several times a minute during rainstorms. The kid was quiet, so quiet that even Sirius's sources hadn't weaseled out what he was imprisoned for. His ragged ear and amber eyes were the only signs of his condition.

Sirius positioned himself so he would tower over the young man and block the last meager rays of gray sunlight.

"Your name is Quinn, yes?" he asked.

To his credit, the young werewolf wasn't starstruck, but wary. Though suspicious of the other inmate's intentions, he agreed to a walk. The two prisoners did two turns in silence, their thin prison robes little protection against the wind. The young man wedged his hands under his arms and tried to study Sirius.

The rain started again, a common enough occurrence here, where the gray clouds never dissipated. Sirius threaded a few fingers through the fence. On the other side was a steep drop and a roiling gray sea. It was grim. Not Azkaban, but still grim.

Without preamble, Sirius shot out his best guess. "Robbery, was it?"

Quinn looked surprised. "Got four months. Going to be released in two weeks. Sir."

Sirius kept his expression blank. "I suspected as much. A crime of survival, I suspect. Common enough for your kind, no? You seem... you wouldn't commit a crime unless driven to extremes. I know. My dearest friend is a werewolf. I understand his desperation. He… or you… has stolen to stay alive."

The young man leaned against the fence. Despite the glasses and hat that enveloped his face, there was a harder edge to him. Prison did that. Prison, and being a werewolf in a country like this.

"If your friend is a werewolf, he's explained it to you. They call us criminals, so they take all our rights away. That makes it almost impossible to get a job or an education. So of course, we become criminals to stay alive. Simple as that. But those guys in the Ministry, they're too stupid to see."

Sirius leaned against the fence too. He and the young werewolf stared out at the drizzle and the prison yard. "Quinn, it's not stupidity. Those prejudiced Ministry officials purposely create a society where their expectations are realized. They shape werewolves into criminals, into enemies of wizard society, to prove themselves right. And that justifies an expansion of their laws. Wicked cycle, really."

After a moment's hesitation, Quinn nodded. "You know, the rest of the guys really idolize you. Most of the big shots here turn out to be violent louts in the end. I figured you'd be... don't get angry when I say this, but-"

"You probably figured I'd be half-mad after Azkaban. Which I am."

"Even if you're mad, you're smart."

Sirius crossed his arms against his chest. "Smart enough to see that you're one of Greyback's boys."

Quinn visibly whitened. For Greyback's soldiers, those captured would die of torture before they revealed their master. Admitting their affiliation, to even allies, was punishable by death.

"I'm not confirming that," Quinn said slowly.

Sirius sensed this was the time to switch from avuncular older prisoner to crisp businessman. "That's close enough to a confirmation for my purposes. And a good thing. I need you to deliver a message to Fenrir Greyback."

Sirius wrapped an arm around Quinn's shoulder and resumed the walk. "He's having a hard time finding a buyer?"

A spot of color returned to the wolf's face, a bright red of indignation. "Greyback doesn't care if we back the Death Eaters or the Ministry. Our conditions are simple: whichever side pays us well and treats us as humans."

"But apparently those simple preconditions are too much," Sirius finished. "Listen to me. Tell Greyback I admire him. He's taken solitary werewolves, scattered and skeptical, and molded them into an army. He's built a society for people like you and my friend, good people forced into desperation. But I think he's short-sighted. The Ministry and the Death Eaters aren't the only games in town. He might sell his army to a… private citizen."

When Quinn grasped the significance, Sirius continued. As he approached the most important part of his plan, he almost tripped over his words. "I have one condition. I need to know who I'm working with. I want to evaluate the alphas. If you know anything about me, you'll understand why I'm concerned about a leaky ship."

The kid nodded. "I understand. They say you're one of the best spies ever. That you funneled information to the Dark Lord while convincing the Order of the Phoenix you were a loyal soldier. That you fooled loads of people into thinking you were a friend, and then you had them all killed."

One muscle twitched in Sirius's brow, but he forced down his inner rage. "Those are my terms. I want to speak with the alphas and have my people thoroughly vet them. I want to be filled in on all the private vendettas, all the side interests and operations, before I make my offer. Greyback will find me easy to negotiate with. Unlike the other bidders, I have no aversion to werewolves, and I actually have the money. And I certainly need my own soldiers." Sirius waved his arms to encompass the whole of the prison yard.

"But you're serving a life sentence here. What could you do with a private army?"

"My dear boy, of course I need an army. I've spent enough of my life in prison. I'm ready to escape. Again."


End file.
